Of Children's Taunts and Academic Books
by Cynical-Smile01
Summary: Hermione can't see why everything felt so hard back then, because, really, it was nothing to complain about. It was nothing out-of-the-ordinary or challenging. It was life, and things were easier back then.


**Of Children's Taunts and Academic Books **

**Hermione can't see why everything felt so hard back then, because, really, it was nothing to complain about. It was nothing out-of-the-ordinary or challenging. It was life, and things were easier back then. **

**I don't own Harry Potter, unfortunately. **

Looking back after all these years I see that everything wasn't as bad as I first imagined. At 6, I thought the worst thing in the world was not being allowed to play with the other children because they didn't want me. At 16, the worst thing was a tyrannical teacher who wanted to take over the school. At 26, I was just glad I was alive.

People have a tendency to ignore anything beneath the surface. I say people, not just children. People. All the teachers who missed the signs of a lonely, isolated child, all the parents who must have glossed over stories of "That know-it-all Granger" and not asked little Billy why they picked on her so much. My parents who were too focused on their careers to notice a child pleading for attention.

There's a saying "Surrounded by water, but dying of thirst". I was surrounded by people but was as lonely as a flower in the Sahara. Because no-one was prepared to take the time to ask me why I was so buried in my books, or why I didn't play with the other children.

I have heard people think I am confident, they have always thought I was confident. How wrong could they be? When you feel you have no-one to go to with problems you develop a thick skin, you learn to look after yourself. But really you are insecure, wanting someone who will take the burden off your shoulders.

Looking back I wonder why I never told someone about it all.

I wanted to please. I wanted teachers to notice me and say "Well done Hermione", or "That was very intelligent, Hermione". Instead I was rewarded with "Please can we ask someone else" or "Sit down, Hermione, or you'll burst through the ceiling". As I grew older it only got worse. They ignored me completely eventually; I was only confusing my classmates with my explanations.

Part of my problem, I suppose, was coming from such a highly qualified family. My Grandfather had a Doctorate in Maths, my Grandpa was a Head teacher, my Granny a teacher and my Nan a Radiographer. My Aunty was a Lawyer, and my Uncle a Doctor. Both my parents were Dentists. I felt inferior. I had to be top of my class. I had to get all A*'s in my GCSEs; I had to go to 6th form; I had to get at least a Masters degree. I read every book I could get my hands on to try to impress them. I became obsessive in my desire to make an impression. Flow charts in colourful pens, highlighter marking pages, colour-coded of course. It bordered on OCD. Instead of pleasing them they ignored my opinions, saying I was a little girl and I had no say, ignored my attempts at learning saying that I should be working harder.

My family weren't cruel. They just weren't prepared for a child. It was many years later, when I was expecting my own child, I found out they had never planned me. After a scrumptious meal cooked by Molly and they had drunken enough wine that they were rosy cheeked and slightly intoxicated we got talking about how many children we wanted. They confessed they hadn't planned on having children at all. They couldn't cope with the idea, knowing that it wasn't fair to have a child when they wouldn't be able to look after them, and didn't know how. I was a mistake. I was never wanted.

They couldn't look after me. When I was little I would be dropped at the childminder's at 7am, who would the escort me to school, then pick me up afterwards, take me back to their house, help me with my homework and feed me my dinner. My parents would pick me up at 6.30pm, I would have an hour or so with them, generally watching some educational programme before being packed off to bed. On Saturdays my parents dropped me off at my Aunty's while they ran their practice because hers was closed at weekends. That changed as I grew older but it was how things went, for the most part. Only the times changed. I was already planning on going to boarding school for year 7. I suppose that's why I accepted Hogwarts without even thinking. It can't be much different to Cheltenham Ladies College, I remember thinking.

Teachers were fed up of that strange girl with bushy hair who had her hand perpetually stuck in the air. The children were fed up of that strange Granger girl who managed to squeeze herself into hidey-holes no-one else could. My parents fed up of the child they never wanted. What was there to lose?

But looking back, things were easy.

I didn't have it like Harry. My parents were still alive, and at least they tried to care about me, they took me on holiday, I had my own room with plenty of books and I had clothes that fitted properly, and food made for me rather than leftovers from someone else's. I was pampered compared to Harry.

I didn't have it like the Weasleys who were trying to eke out every knut, stretching everything between 7 children and couldn't provide for them. I would have had the best education my parents could get me, I always had money to buy things I needed, and I didn't have to look in charity shops or second hand stores either.

I didn't have it like I have had it.

Looking back, as a child, I had it easy.

The other children didn't try to beat me up; the teachers didn't have a Dark Lord sprouting from the back of their heads; I had my parents.

My first year at Hogwarts was upsetting. I thought it would be different there, that they may like me. I tried so hard to be knowledgeable about this new world; I bought books and books to learn as much as I could. But I was shunned. The students were the same, and the teachers were worse. I didn't ever cry in front of people, but toilet cubicles and silencing charms were a life-saver.

I wondered during my second year if my parents would come and visit me while I was petrified. The curious thing about being petrified is that you are still aware of everything going on around you. I could hear Colin Creevy's parents and younger brother sit and talk to him. Percy Weasley would sit for hours by Penelope Clearwater, as would her parents and muggle sister. I thought I knew not to get my hopes up. I knew the magic thing scared them. I wished they were concerned about me, but truthfully, they were practical people who didn't know I was alert. They thought I was not aware of things. I know Ron and Harry came a few time though. I liked that.

At times in my third year I wondered if they would even care that one of my first friends and I had fallen out. I wondered after if I should tell them that I helped a convicted criminal escape. But given the fact they barely registered when I told them I was taking 12 classes when the norm was 9, I decided it wasn't worth it.

By my forth year I gave up on having a normal year at Hogwarts. I gave up on the idea of Snape being nice to me, or Malfoy stopping taunting me. We were preparing for war. I didn't know that at the time of course, but I knew everything was changing. It was the subtle differences. Snape flexing his left arm more, Karkaroff looking more anxious by the day, that Tri-Wizard cup that almost killed Harry. It was a dead body that made me decide never to tell my parents anything about the magical world. They knew about Harry and how he was famous, but that would be that.

I would have thought the boys would be more suspicious about my flimsy excuses as to why I stayed away from home more. They aren't thick, despite what I may sometimes think. But they fell for them hook line and sinker. Why should I stay home? After I went on holiday with my parents I would go to the Burrow. I had planned that from the previous September. I knew my parents wouldn't mind. When I found my Mother's diary after she died I would realise that they did miss me, and they wished they could have a second chance at my childhood. But by then they knew they had already lost me. I was gone. I cried for hours when I read it, knowing I was partially responsible for pushing them away.

What would they have said about my fifth year? They never knew about Umbridge, and the rebellion, and the blood quills. I wonder if I had spoken up would they have tried to do something. But I kept my mouth firmly shut.

My parent knew nothing about the war, the loss and the turmoil. They knew nothing about my harboured feelings for Ron Weasley. I drifted further away from the muggle world. We were at war, and sacrifices have to me made.

I told them vaguely that Dumbledore had been killed, but I never stuck around for an answer, I went to pack my things.

Looking back, how could I have been so level headed about modifying their memories? I did it without a second thought. It was better they were out of the way. I did not love them, no. Just because we were related it did not indicate any relationship past shared DNA. But they were my parents so I tried my hardest to protect them, like they tried to give me everything I needed. But they missed one thing. I wanted to be wanted. A family is much more than blood. And my family was Harry and Ron. And I would gladly die for them. I would not die for my parents though. I walked into that room while their backs were turned and jabbed my wand at the backs of their heads. They slumped to one side while I got to work modifying their memories. I was out of the house before they regained consciousness. I fulfilled my parents' desires however. You see, Wendell and Monica Wilkins did not know they had a daughter.

I spent many hours brooding in that tent while on the run; I was worse than Harry. I wondered what my life would be like then if I was not magical. Would I have turned out the confident young woman everyone thought I was? I was still so insecure; I was just better at hiding it. What if my parents had loved me how I had so desired? I thought about my childhood and how I had found it so upsetting at the time. It wasn't hard. Not like it had been since I went to Hogwarts. It wasn't like it was grief-inducing like when I saw Cedric Diggory dead on the grass of his beloved Quidditch pitch, or when I saw Sirius fall through the veil, or when I saw Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's cold broken body lying at the foot of the Astronomy tower. It wasn't like I was cold, hungry and alone like when I was stuck in a tent in mid-December on the run from a mass murdering Dark Lord. No, things had been simpler then.

It was the Battle of Hogwarts and I ran through corridors hopelessly trying to fend off Death Eaters. Flashes of light burst into existence; trying pathetically to perform an unscripted gymnastics routine. But then it stopped. I saw a hand in front of me helping me up. A dainty hand. Its owner was Lavender Brown. For the briefest of moments I had the strangest urge to hug her, but I didn't know why. Afterwards, as I watched them stretcher her feebly moving body out of the school I realised why. She had accepted me, despite my quirks and differences. She could put aside our squabbles. I wonder how many of my class from primary school would have done that. I never did get to say thank you. She fought for 5 days in a coma before she died. I wonder if it would have been kinder to let her die there and then when Greyback all but killed her.

And I never really got over it. Because life had been simpler when I was a child. Because 18 year olds weren't fighting a war on the grounds of a school and classmates didn't have to put aside their squabbles to save each other from death. But was I ever a child? I saw the look in the eyes of the students left behind and decided that childhood wasn't a number; it was a time when you could trust that adults would sort out all of your problems. When had an adult ever been able to sort out my problems? But I was a child. Still full of hope, naivety and life.

I stood in the Shrieking Shack, watched my hated Potions professor die before my eyes and him beg Harry to take his memories. It was then I realised that teachers aren't all knowing and the highest authority: they are human like you and I. And after all these years I forgave him, because at least he tried to do what was right, even if he was awful to us.

After the war I got my hopes up. I had a boyfriend, my parents were alive even if we struggled to get along, and we were free. I got married; bought a house; fell pregnant. If seemed practically perfect.

And then it all crashed again. Some Death Eaters who managed to escape tracked down the parents of the famous muggleborn war hero Hermione Granger and murdered them in cold blood.

I may never have got on with them but they were my parents, who made the best of what life had given them. I never forgave myself for not opening my eyes enough to realise that they had tried to make amends around my fourth year. And I realised that, after all, I really did love them, because they were my parents, and they tried their hardest to ensure I was taken care of, even if they wouldn't give up their business. So, despite everything, I loved Rose and Hugo Granger, my parents. I wish they had lived to meet their Grandchildren, so they could have a second chance. You see, Rose Jean Weasley was born a week after they died.

Yes, life was easier when I was a child, but it all seemed so much worse back then, because I was young, helpless, naïve and childish. I'm a woman now, and I must live with my lot.


End file.
